Karōshi
by templremus1990
Summary: Occupational sudden death. It's something Jack Harkness is all too familiar with. But hey, at least the people are interesting...


**Karōshi**

He was the youngest I'd had for some time; certainly the prettiest, although that wasn't saying much. When you're stretched out naked on an autopsy table, most people don't tend to look their best.

The body in front of me was well-built, had clearly been taut and toned before death slackened every muscle. All his own teeth, a full head of hair and a good height to weight ratio; in short, the sort of body that someone used to love.

None of which altered the job to come at all.

The preliminaries done, I concentrated on the neck. Usually things around here kick off with an incision to the sternum, but this neck was a mess. There were breaks in at least three places, where several dark shafts had been driven deep into the bone. They weren't nails, but rather something darker, almost claw-like, though in the event it made no difference. The effect was the same, regardless of any ritual behind it. I started to ply at them with the tweezers and wondered, briefly, what kind of a man could have held someone down for long enough to hammer the things in; especially when their victim was someone as sturdy as Mr A. N. Other here.

I say 'briefly', because about two seconds after this thought occurred, my corpse sat up.

He screamed. I screamed louder. The universal order of things took a sudden jump in the wrong direction. All this happened in less time than it takes to write. Though it felt, as time often does in these circumstances, like an eternity.

He stopped screaming first, and since he was the one who had just come back from the dead, I felt a bit unjustified in carrying on without him. We stared at each other for a long moment, me rooted to the spot, he flustered and breathless, as though he had just run an unprecedented distance in a very short space of time. Which, for all I know, he had.

My corpse reached up and tugged a black spine free, grimacing as he did so. Once they were all out gripped my own palm in a ready-chilled handshake, a brilliant grin stretched across his face.

"C-captain Jack Harkness," he drawled, as best as he could through chattering teeth. "Mind if we turn the heat up a little?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, Captain Harkness was perched on the end of the metal table, busily engaged in eating my lunch. I couldn't remember giving it to him, but he seemed to be enjoying it far more than I possibly could right now, so I let that slide. And anyway, it's not often that you get to see the guy you were just about to slice open tuck into your chicken salad. I toyed with an apple on the sidelines, hefting it from palm to palm in the casual way designed to suggest that yes, this type of thing happens every day in the exciting world of pathology.

Whoever I was trying to kid, it didn't work.

The wounds to the back of my guest's neck had already faded, several dried bloodstains the only hint of formerly fatal injury. Apart from that he seemed healthy, lucid, charming, hungry, and above all alive.

It was the last one that was causing me some problems.

"So." I ventured at last. It sounded slightly better than, 'What the fuck just happened?'

"So," he echoed, popping an olive into his mouth. "Got any dressing?"

"Uh, no. Sorry." Something told me that this conversation wasn't going the way I'd hoped. I tried again.

"You were _dead_."

"Yep."

"And now you're not."

"Looks like it."

"But…"

He pre-empted me, which was fortunate, since I had no idea how I was planning to finish that sentence.

"I can't die. Ever. Seriously, no way. And don't ask me anything else, 'cos I can't answer. Not without wiping your memory, and I _really_ don't wanna do that. Don't think it'd be much fun for you either."

He stood up, knotting a shroud around himself with impressive dignity.

"Thanks for the chicken, Dr-?"

"Sorry?" I said feebly.

Harkness shrugged. "You got to third base with me. Reckon I should at least know your name."

"James. Dryden. Dr Dryden."

The coherent part of my mind was finally catching up with events; or, at least, the professional; part. Rational argument was still some way behind.

Harkness flashed me another of those Earth-changing grins.

"Great to meet you, Doc. Good luck with it."

He turned, and was immediately confronted with his first obstacle; namely, a very large steel door. Meanwhile the cold-blooded, single-minded, reality-grounded side of me- the side that had earned me the nickname 'Butcher' in my second year of medical school- had reinstated itself.

Harkness swung round to face me, his expression a mixture of amusement, annoyance- and fear.

"Honestly, just who are trying to keep _in_ in these places?"

"Think I just found the answer." I slurred, smooth as you like. Now I was enjoying myself.

The emotions on Harkness' face flickered to anger. "Harkness, security visa 4589-"

"Sorry," I burst in, "but as far as I'm concerned, that's bollocks."

Now fear was back in full force. He started to reach around, as though in search of a gun or all-access pass; something to guarantee his unconditional freedom. When that proved fruitless he folded both arms across his chest, shoulders squared.

"What have you done with my coat?"

"Sorry." I said again. "The correct questions are, in no particular order, 'What do you want to know?, 'How many favours do you need?', and 'Can I buy you a drink?'"

He blinked.

"Figured we might as well aim for first base too." I shrugged.

Even corpses- and, apparently, Americans- know when to admit defeat.

I snapped off my surgical gloves and leant back against the table, fingers pressed together in the best movie-villain style. This was my domain.

"Well then. Shall we start?"


End file.
